


Mathom Tales

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Dwarf Courting, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gender Issues, Hobbit Courting, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Romance, Rule 63, Shovel Talk, Threesome - M/M/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short ficlets and one-shots, prompted by request through my tumblr.  Rating, included pairings, etc., are all subject to change as I continue to fill prompts.  Every chapter will be stand-alone.</p><p>1. 63!Boffins courting fluff<br/>2. 63!Dwalin/Ori beginning a courtship<br/>3. 63!Kili/Tauriel culture and gender discussion<br/>4. Fili/Kili/Ori shovel talk from the brothers Ri<br/>5. 63!Thorin/Bilbo having a discussion about children</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bilbo/Bofur - Rule 63 - Courting Customs

**Author's Note:**

> Bofur/Bilbo, Rule 63, so much fluff. An exploration in Shire & Dwarven courting, with flowers and gems respectively. Requested by tentativesunriseonthehorizon.

“I still don't understand—” Bofur stretched out her legs, warming her bare toes closer to the crackling hearth, and leaned back against the soothing pull of Bilbo's fingers through her hair. “How a soft little flower can mean _forever_ , when it's dead in a week. All shrivelly and brown... wrinkly as that old Sackville fella, always giving me the stink-eye when he sees me 'round the market. You'd think he'd never seen a lady with a moustache before, but he can't fool me. I've seen his missus, too.” 

Lounging together in the parlour on a peaceful night, with Hobbiton a silent snowscape just outside the frost-patterned windows, Bilbo was sitting in her favourite chair with Bofur splayed out across the rug, her wide shoulders wedged between Bilbo's knees for a bit of petting. Supper was through and bellies were full, the dishes washed and dried together, with Bofur knocking their hips together every time she reached to take a plate.

“Nothing's truly forever,” Bilbo said, not rising to the bait of that teasing tone. She recognized the genuine curiosity layered beneath, and that alone warmed her more than the hearth, affection curling sweetly in her chest. Bofur, she had discovered, was profoundly sentimental, even if the clever dwarrow-dam preferred to hide it away under easy joviality.

Taking up the silver comb from the small table beside her chair (the comb was one of the few treasures they'd lugged across hill and dale from Erebor, only short weeks before), Bilbo began working the strong metal teeth gently through Bofur's thick hair. Out of its braids, it was glossy as a chestnut, but always a bit wild and flyaway without proper tending.

“No, not forever,” Bofur agreed, one hand rising to curl around the knob of Bilbo's knee, just under the rucked-up hem of her house dress. Bofur hadn't taken to Hobbitish styles yet, still layered in trousers and braces every time she ventured from the smial, but here in the still of the evening, she was stripped down to a worn linen shirt, with warm skin and soft trails of dark hair not so far away from Bilbo's questing hands. “But I'd wager a diamond might last a sight longer than a dandelion, eh?”

When Bilbo's fingers stopped their lovely stroking, Bofur squeezed her eyes shut, mouthing a silent curse. Of course she'd gone too far. Sometimes it seemed as though Bilbo had the patience of the stone itself, but when it came to Hobbit things, the queer words and customs of her odd wee people, she wouldn't endure too much joking without fluffing up like a wet hen. 

“Wait just a moment,” Bilbo said, but by some amazing stroke of luck, it wasn't the sharp beginning of an admonishment it could have been. No, it was a simple request, punctuated by a peck of a kiss to the crown of Bofur's head, and then a squirmy little hobbit lass slipping out from their comfortable seating arrangement. 

Bofur sagged back against the seat of the chair, already missing the press of Bilbo's furry calves against her ribs and those clever fingers making her shiver with every tug of her hair. But there wasn't anything to be done— Bilbo's ample feet were already padding quickly away, gone out into the hallway.

“Here it is,” Bilbo called a few short moments later, appearing in the doorway with a small, leather book clutched in her hands. She was holding the slim tome as if it were the finest treasure, and this was a hobbit who'd secreted the Arkenstone itself inside her shirt. 

“A book,” Bofur said, because it was, and also because stating the obvious made Bilbo's plush pink mouth purse in the sweetest little bud of fond annoyance. 

“My mother's book,” Bilbo said, coming back to the chair, and this time, Bofur curled around a bit more sideways, enough to get a good look at Bilbo's heirloom. The cover was weathered, but well cared for, and tooled with curling vines.

“She kept it for years.” The spine didn't make a sound when Bilbo opened the book, laying it over her knees; not a crack or a creak. “See, here's gardenia, and forsythia, yellow as the day it was picked. Gloxinia, here, so lovely...”

Bofur craned up for a better view, only to find flattened blooms where she'd expected whatever nonsense words Bilbo was spouting. Flowers, flat as the pages they were sandwiched between, but looking little worse for the wear of it. Still brightly coloured, a riot of squashed petals spread out like dollops of ink.

“These were given when my parents were courting,” Bilbo said, her thumb tracing reverently along the edges of the book. “Forsythia for anticipation. Gardenia was my father telling Mum she was loveliest lass he'd ever seen. And here, later on—”

Careful as the most skilled jeweller might lift a priceless gem, Bilbo turned the pages farther along. Every page, it seemed, was awash in a rainbow of dried petals.

“Myrtle and ivy from the wedding wreathes,” Bilbo said, smiling down at the book with a brightness in her deep, glistening eyes that made Bofur's breath catch in her throat. “Orange blossoms. White rosebuds, when I was born, and Sweet William. Roses, for love, and violets... Blue violets for faithfulness.”

More fluttering paper, but Bofur wasn't looking at the pages at all anymore. Not when Bilbo's smile had gone so wobbly 'round the edges. No, instead she reached out with such care, curling thick fingers around Bilbo's small palm without jostling the book.

“Yarrow.” Bilbo's voice was small, and Bofur would have told her it was enough, to put the book aside, if Bilbo hadn't chosen that moment to glance up, catching Bofur's concerned stare.

“Yarrow for health, after my father fell ill.” Bilbo didn't resist the tug against her hand, allowing Bofur to press a warm, whiskery kiss against her knuckles. “Sweet peas, and forget-me-nots when he didn't get better.”

“Bilbo, love—”

“Do you see, Bofur?” Closing the cover, Bilbo placed the book gingerly on the side table, keeping it well clear of their cups of cooling tea. “Your _jools_ , your gems are lovely, in their way. But these are no further from forever than any glittering stone.”

“Aye, love.” Ignoring the prickling in her own eyes, _damn_ the smokey fire, Bofur rested her head against Bilbo's knee. “I see it now, clear as day.”

 

* * *

 

It was a fortnight later when Bilbo wandered into their bedroom, back from a trip to the market and surprised by an empty smial, to find a note waiting on their chest of drawers.

Thick vellum, perched atop a little burlap sachet, and no Bofur in sight.

The blocky script was entirely Bofur however, and Bilbo pressed her hand against her lips as she read.

 

_To my lovely,_

_One thing about gems, they're easier to find than blossoms when snow lays thick on the ground. Even in your lush wee Shire._

_Blue violets for faithfulness, you said. Well, sapphires too, it turns out. Aster and amethyst for my dainty Shire beauty, keeping me steady. Ruby rose, red as the blood that burns for you, like fire in my veins._

_Mercy, this went soppy, and no time to write another. See you coming up the row, with your cheeks pink and ruddy. You do steal my breath, my lovely lass, sure as you stole my heart._

_Open your present._

It was with trembling fingers, but Bilbo did as she was bid, plucking apart the knotted cord that held the sachet closed.

 _These_ were the fruits of the secretive labour that had been keeping Bofur sneaking around Bag End, creeping out of bed at all hours and waving off evenings down at the Green Dragon. These impossibly delicate little flowers, with stems wrought in polished wire of gleaming gold, and topped with bright, glittering blooms, hardly bigger than her thumbnail. Chips of sapphire, set in a perfect rounded star shape. Shards of vividly purple amethyst, bursting out from a golden centre. Fine layers of ruby, spiralling, so intricately done one might almost think it was as velvet soft as the real thing.

Three beautiful blossoms, each attached to a delicate, decorative comb, ready to tuck into her curls.

“I'll get you finer blooms in the spring,” Bofur said from behind her, making Bilbo turn with a startled gasp. Still, her hold on her precious treasures never wavered.

“Living ones,” Bofur continued, picking at the hem of her finest shirt (green wool, embroidered with golden knotwork 'round the cuffs and squarish collar, bought from a dwarven trader in Bree on their trek home). Her belt buckle was polished to sparkling, and her hair was plaited up fresh and neat. “If you want. I'm no hobbit, got no real notion of your courting, or if it's even the same for two lasses... but I'd be willing to learn. Do this properly, with the wee book and all. If that suits.” 

“That suits,” Bilbo managed to say, though her throat was thick as treacle, and her voice was wobbly. When Bofur frowned, worry making her moustache droop, Bilbo forced her legs to move her forward, until she was all but leaping into the circle of those strong, sturdy arms.

“That suits just fine,” she murmured, pressing her face into the hollow of Bofur's throat. Resting her head just above the plush, welcoming softness of bosoms, without countless layers binding them down, was a welcome anchor against the rush of affection swelling her heart in her own breast.

Bofur's hands spanned wide across her back, and everything was so perfect Bilbo could hardly believe her fortune— just as she could hardly believe the gorgeous little gemstone blossoms, held snug and safe in her palm. Flowers for fondness, for love, a breathy laugh gusting against her hair, and a warm dwarf to hold close when the winter chill crept in.

No, Luckwearer or no, in that moment she could hardly believe her good fortune at all.


	2. 63!Dwalin/Ori - Beginning a Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. 63!Dwalin/Ori, starting their courtship
> 
> Requested by landofquestsandtales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teeniest, _tiniest_ Desolation of Smaug spoiler.

They were just settling in to their queer, oversized lodgings for the night— though Dwalin had little intention of settling too far, no matter how the wizard prattled about their safety— when the hobbit let out a squawk. 

“Oh, Ori!” Abandoning his fussing over the hay of their temporary bed (if he sneezed _once more_ , Dwalin would be hard pressed not to slice off his cursed hobbity nose, no matter what Thorin might have to say on the matter), Bilbo trotted over, patting his ludicrous little waistcoat down, apparently searching for something.

“Ori,” he said again, while the wee dwarf in question turned away from what had appeared to be a staring contest with one of the goats roving about the cottage. Fili and Kili looked up as well, from their suspicious, quiet chatting nearby, with heads bent close like the meeting of day and dusk. “Here, you dropped this. Tumbled right out of your pocket, just after we crossed that second river, I think? Still have no idea how I managed to catch it on that ridiculous run about, my _word_ , but I'll not question any bit of good fortune on this venture.”

Dwalin paused in her slow patrol, checking for any lethal flaws in their perimeter (habit, even if they had little hope of defence against gigantic were-bears and warg-mounted orcs, besides these flimsy walls of wood they huddled behind). The hobbit held out his soft wee hand, and the stone in his palm caught the setting sun, streaming in the cottage's windows. Its rusty brown surface was polished mirror smooth, and shimmered like flame in the warm orange light, sparkling with bands of gold and blood red.

Just a hunk of agate, it looked like— shined up pretty, but common enough to find raw around the Blue Mountains, and nothing worth more than a few coins to any merchant with an eye for stones. Nothing, Dwalin thought, worth the ruby-dark flush that washed over young Ori's face in a great rush, and his mad scramble to snatch the stone from Bilbo's hand.

If Ori hadn't kicked up such a fuss, odds were the two troublesome princes wouldn't have given the exchange more than passing attention.

In their defence, the lads had _relatively_ good intentions when they swept in, hemming Ori's narrow shoulders on either side. Kili clapped one arm around Ori's back, while Fili leaned forward, nabbing the stone with those same damned quick reflexes that made him a terror with a set of knives.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Ori,” Kili said, cheerful as you please, while Ori himself let out a wordless cry. There was no chance he'd be able to steal the stone back from those clever fingers, unless Fili allowed him to, but to his great credit, Ori did make a good go of it.

“Easy there,” Fili said, smiling crooked under his moustache, while his brother giggled bright as a wee dwarrow again.

“That's rather rude,” Bilbo tutted, hands on his hips like a grumpy little sugarbowl, and Dwalin was wont to agree in this instance. Still, Ori had to learn to get his own feet under him, without forever being fussed over and tended like a bairn; young as he was, he was still a dwarf grown, no matter what his oldest brother might wish.

“It's just a token,” Fili said, spinning the stone over his fingers. “For luck, or safety.”

“Our mother gave one to both of us, too, Ori,” Kili added, ruffling that thick, hay-blonde bowl of hair and making Ori's sputter. “Good you didn't lose it.”

“Please give it back,” Ori began to say, only to be interrupted by Fili's exclamation of surprise.

“Oh, _oh_ , hang on, brother,” he said, holding the stone steady but still darting to-and-fro just enough to keep it out of Ori's reach. “This isn't a mother's token. Look at the runes.”

“Give it _back_!” Ori's unexpected shout was enough to draw the attention of every other dwarf in the cottage, as well as one silently brooding wizard, and that was a jest gone far enough in Dwalin's estimation.

“Do as he says, lads.” Dwalin sidled up beside their little hurly burly, blocking the lot of them as best she could with the breadth of her back. The rest of the Company could look elsewhere for a spot of entertainment, especially after Dwalin noticed the fierce, wet gleam in Ori's dark eyes. “Return it. _Now._ ”

Fili, whether from the bite of his own conscience in the face of Ori's emotion or from the weight of Dwalin's scowl, didn't simply toss the stone back to be fumbled, perhaps dropped. Instead, he held it carefully, almost reverently, out Ori's way, letting the other dwarf snatch it up and clutch it close, hiding it immediately from view in the folds of his sleeves.

“Apologies Ori,” Fili said, losing the smirk in favour of a more sober half-smile, and dipping his head in a shallow nod. Kili's eyes were still darting from Ori to his brother, confusion marring his brow. “We didn't know you'd accepted a suit, did we Kili?”

“A suit?” Kili said, blinking, while Bilbo (still lingering by Dwalin's elbow), pressed a hand against his cheek. “Like, wooing and all? I didn't... I didn't know you were a _lass_! Is that why you wouldn't come out from under the water in that elf fountain?”

“I'm _not_ ,” Ori said, teeth gritted and colour still vivid crimson on his cheeks. Bilbo threw up his arms with a scoff, turning on his heel and stomping off with a long-suffering hiss of “confounded d _warves_.” 

“That's a stone for a lass,” Fili said, shrugging. “Explains why Dori's such a nag, what with you being a girl.”

Apparently, young dwarven princes needed their heads cracked.

“Explains how, exactly,” Dwalin asked, pitched dangerously low, and watched with pleasure as Fili's face drained to ashy white. 

“It, uh, well,” Fili stammered, immediately losing fifty years of sureness and swagger and shrinking back like a scolded bairn. “No. No, nothing. Doesn't explain anything. I misspoke.”

“You misspoke,” Dwalin repeated, but before she could drag another apology out of the lad, Ori was talking again.

“But I'm _not_ a girl,” he said, arms crossing and whiskery chin jutting out. “It's not... _I_ carved it. For— for a dwarrowdam. The finest, loveliest dwarrowdam, strong and _kind_ —”

“ _Ori_!” The only surprising thing about Dori's arrival was how long it took the other dwarf to swoop in, clucking and glaring daggers at the lot of them. Mostly at Dwalin, specifically, for whatever damned reason. “No. Stop it this instant. Come _here_ , would you. By our mother's beard, you foolish _boy_ —”

It was a flurry of hands, of limbs, but before Dwalin could make sense of it, Dori had his brother by the collar and was all but dragging Ori off across the room, deaf to the younger dwarf's protests.

“You'll remember your tongues,” Dwalin growled at the two princes still standing before her, jabbing a finger towards them. “And remember one big, mean _lass_ who'll have your hides nailed to the wall if you don't, eh?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they murmured, just out of unison, and Dwalin held them in place with a glare for a tense moment longer before returning to her previous patrolling.

“—utterly _ridiculous_ ,” Dori was raving, not quite quiet enough to keep every word to himself, while Ori hunched down before his brother. The expression behind his scraggy blonde beard was a simmering, mutinous frown, from what Dwalin could see. Dori didn't seem to need to pause for breath to speak. 

Dwalin had work that needed doing, especially while the light was still with them, but she found she couldn't take her eyes from Ori for too long, despite her best intentions. A promise token, of _wooing_. And the young dwarf carried it with him, even now on this foolhardy quest, rather than leave it with the dam who'd caught his fancy.

The notion that they all might die likely hadn't entered the foolish wee scholar's skull before he'd dashed out of Ered Luin, drunk on romantic dreams of adventure.

“—allow it!” Dori screeched, then quieted to say something else, and finally, Ori's humour seemed to snap taut as a bowstring.

“You _won't_ ,” he said loudly, spine gone rigid, and crowded up right into his brother's purpling face. The cottage was suddenly still and silent as a tomb, and it was just enough for Dwalin to hear Ori's next words. “You won't, Dori. It's _my_ life.”

Dori was impossibly strong, but Ori was quick as lightning, darting away from the hands that reached out to grasp him. Darted away, and over across the room, until he stood before _Dwalin_ , of all people. Granted, Dwalin might have been a wee be protective of the young scholar during the course of their journey thus far, occasionally, but it was hardly her fault that Ori drew trouble like a lodestone drew nails.

“There's that warrior spirit,” she said under her breath, despite all good sense telling her to keep her nose out of such family business. She couldn't regret it, however, when Ori favoured her with a bright, beautiful grin. 

But then he was holding a polished hunk of agate out in her direction, and Dwalin found every thought in her head suddenly _gone_ , like ash on the wind.

There had been another stone held out to her like this, only once before, when she'd been a few years younger than Ori was now. Erebor was still the jewel of the dwarven kingdoms at the time, not a broken hill full of scorched corpses and dragon shit, and the stone had been a brilliant blue topaz, big as a duck egg and carved with a promise. 

She'd accepted the stone and the suit, only to have the lad demand it back less than a month later, when she'd handily beaten every other competitor in a summer festival's wrestling competition. _Every_ competitor, including keen brawny dwarves who were still her elders by years, and including her suitor. 

She'd cracked his rib and bloodied his nose when he'd called her a brute, and she might have done worse if he'd not had a pack of gutless mates to hide behind. The topaz, she'd chucked off one of Erebor's walls.

Balin had shaken his head when she'd eventually ambled home that day, but still butted their brows together, cupping her bruised face gently in both his hands.

It was decades later, and now Dwalin was staring down at another promise token, and a pair of huge, impossibly brown eyes lit with fire and a fool's hope. 

“Would you,” Ori said, then paused to lick his lips. Dwalin wouldn't deny watching that tongue, but then, her brains might as well have been leaking from her nose for all she could order her thoughts at the moment.

“That is,” Ori began again, and you could still hear a pin drop in the damned cottage. “Dwalin, daughter of Fundin, I— I've not much to offer in wealth or, well, not much to offer at all, but I'd be blessed, _truly_ the most blessed dwarf who'd ever walked this good earth, if you would consider... consider my suit. If you're of a mind.”

“Oh my goodness,” someone said, sounding like Balin, but from miles off. Or maybe that was the blood pounding in Dwalin's ears, drowning it out. 

“It's not done,” Ori said, speaking softer now, worrying one ink-stained thumb over the surface of the glossy brown stone. “Not... just not quite right yet. Been working it since Rivendell, making time when I can spare it, without lagging behind. I wanted it to be _perfect_ , but Dori...”

Dori, who was frozen in place across the room, and had been since Ori had first thrust the stone towards Dwalin's chest.

“Dori said he'd toss it down a well,” Ori murmured, quiet but rough with anger, and Dwalin felt an answering rage flare behind her ribs.

“He tries it,” Dwalin heard herself say, though her voice hardly sounded like her own. She hadn't sounded so breathy, so _girlish_ , since before she'd traded clutching her mam's apron strings for the heft of an axe in her palms instead. “And he'll be going down after it.”

Slowly, as though moving through molasses rather than air, Dwalin reached out and touched the edge of the stone with just the tips of her fingers. It was warm, likely from Ori's tight grip, and the thought of his heat leeching into the cool agate made her intensely aware of an itch creeping up the back of her neck. 

Mahal have mercy, she was _blushing_.

“Just, take it, please,” Ori said, shuffling closer, and Dwalin could hardly swallow over the lump in her throat. “Even if you don't... want me, like that. It's pretty, when it shines. Not— not as pretty as you, not nearly, but I'd rather you keep it than have it lost. Please?”

There Ori stood, shifting in his boots and licking his lips again. His hands— a scholar's hands, with the wrong sorts of calluses for an axe or hammer, and grey ink stains on his soft skin— were trembling faintly, white-knuckled where they still held the stone.

This was the stupidest, most foolhardy thing Dwalin had ever seen.

“Aye.” She managed to swallow, then cleared her dry throat with a sharp bark. Ori jumped, just a bit, but Dwalin's larger hand was already closing 'round the stone, and his fingers with it. “I'll accept your suit, Ori, son of Rissa. I accept it ardently, and with all the faith of my foremothers.”

It might take some getting used to, ducking down so far to claim a kiss, but when Ori's mouth opened in surprise, then _stayed_ open, hot and welcome under hers, Dwalin found she didn't much mind the chance to practice.


	3. 63!Kili/Tauriel - Culture and Gender Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel/63!Kili, fluffy exploration of culture and gender politics.
> 
> Kili/Tauriel femslash with some possible examination into the gender politics of dwarves and elves? And fluffy if possible -- requested by grrlofswirls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desolation spoilers, yoooooo.
> 
> It ended up being more dwarven culture than elven, but it hope it still satisfies.

It was hard to reckon time in these cells, but Kili would have wagered the elf sat for an hour, maybe more, as the sounds of revelry echoed through carven stone and twisting wood. Sat for an hour, and spoke to Kili not with the usual disdain of elf to dwarf (and dwarf to elf, frankly), but like a person, like an equal might, without these sturdy bars between them.

It was lovely, with the warm lantern light casting the elf's fiery hair to molten streams of copper. Kili had never seen such beauty— like the breathtaking flare of that fire moon, but poured down from its seat amongst the stars, to settle 'round the shoulders of this kindly elf.

As Kili had already discovered, some things could be harder to tell for certain with these rangy fae folk, with their flowing dresses and smooth, hairless faces. The people of Men were simpler, and hobbits too, even without proper beards— skirts or trousers was easy enough to remember, and most times, it provided an answer well enough to be going with.

Perhaps it wasn't as important a question to the other races. The women of Men and Hobbits didn't appear quite so scarce as dwarrowdams, nor quite so unspeakably precious either. Kili had dealt with the Men of villages scattered 'round the roots of Ered Luin, and heard talk of wives tossed aside by husbands for prettier lasses, and seen women bundled in ordinary skirts and shawls, no cowls or masks to conceal them, and yet still climbing into wagons for travel.

Travelling the open roads, in a skirt. Kili still couldn't fathom it.

But this elf... this elf wore no full and maidenly skirts, none any longer than the other elves flouncing around these halls at least, but the smooth swell of breasts were not entirely concealed beneath that lush green coat.

Kili swallowed thickly, shifting to sit closer to the bars.

“Tauriel?” It was a pretty name for a prettier elf, though Kili bit back that pitiful excuse for a compliment. Being permitted to speak the name was too grand a privilege to waste on such trite sounding praise, no matter how true. “May I... may I ask something?”

“You have asked many things already this night, Master Dwarf. I worry to think what sort of topic might hold your tongue now.” Tauriel was still smiling, softening the words, and Kili was blessed by a bolt of courage.

“You are—” Kili paused, chewing over the phrasing. “You are a she-elf, aren't you?”

Tauriel's smile quirked ever so slightly, from warm to warmly amused. “I am,” she said, tilting her head like a bird.

“How is it,” Kili said quietly, leaning nearer still and trying not to feel like a fool. “I mean, it's amazing, you being allowed to lead your kin outside your halls, to guard your borders, as you are.”

“As I am?” The fall of Tauriel's expression into stone-hard coldness was quicker and more jarring than the click of Kili's cage door closing had been. “I am Captain of the Mirkwood guard, dwarf. _That_ is how I am, irrespective of what you might think of my sex, and you would do well to remember it.”

“No, no wait—” It was a stretch to reach through the bars and catch her sleeve, especially with how quickly Tauriel was moving to gain her feet, but Kili managed to snag her. “I didn't mean— _please_ wait. That's not what I meant at all, I swear.” When the frigid elf didn't seem swayed enough to thaw again, Kili cursed softly, turning to press tight against the bars, speaking hardly louder than a breath.

“I'm a lass, too,” Kili whispered, incredibly glad for the echoing racket of elven merrymaking, loud enough to keep her words private from wandering elves and her imprisoned kin alike. “A dwarrowdam. Doesn't mean I'm not tough as iron and willing to prove it. But dwarves, we're more cautious about who knows such things, is all.”

The Company knew, of course; even dear little Boggins had been let in on the secret, after catching a glimpse when Oin was tending a scrape high on Kili's ribs, leaving her stripped down to nothing but her skin from the waist up. The hobbit had gone red as a beet, sputtering shrill as a teakettle, and Kili had lost her breath laughing about it.

It was one thing for their companions to know the truth, but Thorin would skin her alive for sharing such a secret with their captors.

“A dwarrowdam,” Tauriel repeated, thankfully keeping her voice just as quiet as Kili's, and slowly sank back down to her seat on the steps. She murmured something Kili didn't catch, sounding lyrical and senseless in the way of elvish tongues, then came smoothly back to Westron. “You... You have my apologies, Kili. I had no idea.”

“I did invite you to check my trousers, you'll recall.” Kili grinned crookedly, unable to resist, and was profoundly pleased when her flirty reminder elicited a sweet pink flush over the flawless skin of Tauriel's cheeks. The rejoinder of before— _or nothing_ — had been clever, and not without a hint of promisingly playfulness layered beneath, but Kili found she preferred this rosy blush.

“And the whole point is that you wouldn't know,” Kili continued. Tauriel hadn't yet shrugged off the thick dwarven fingers still holding her gently by the soft fabric of her cuff, and that tacit permission was enough to make heat bubble up in Kili's belly, excited as a pot just begun simmering.

“So your women do indeed have beards?” Tauriel asked, hesitating, then continued before Kili could answer. “And why... why keep such a thing secret? Among some peoples of Men, I could understand— do dwarves keep their women tethered to the domestic and away from martial pursuits, as well?”

That was a question with a complex answer, and Kili thought carefully as she crafted her words.

“Not entirely,” she said, licking her dry lips. There was a flicker of keen elven eyes, the same dappled green as leaves in the soft light of daybreak, and Kili dared to let her fingers stretch a bit farther, just enough to brush the skin of a slim, bare wrist. “Dwarrowdams are scant few compared to our men, you see, and treasured all the more because of it. Dams are kept safe, as much as possible, but we can be just as bullheaded as our brothers, too.”

Kili scuffled her boot heel against the cool stone floor, aching a bit for the smooth curve of her bow against her palm. “We make the fiercest warriors, you know, clever and quick. More to prove, maybe, or maybe not. Choosing the warrior's life, or committing to a trade instead of raising up more wee dwarrows... it's not _frowned_ upon, necessarily. Just, there's a responsibility to the survival of our people to consider.”

“A responsibility you would choose to avoid,” Tauriel said, but there wasn't a single note of judgement in her tone, and Kili couldn't find the ire to bristle.

“I'd choose to protect,” Kili said instead. “To keep our people safe with the strength of my arm, rather than what's between my legs. Not that there's a thing wrong with mothering, it's just... not for me.”

Blinking away a faint dampness growing in her eyes, Kili stared up into the shadowed ceiling of her cell, thinking of her own mother. No, there wasn't any shame in raising babes; it seemed a harder task than swinging a hammer or cleaving through orc flesh, to be honest. Fighting was straightforward— put the business end of your weapon towards whatever you wanted dead, and make it happen. Mothering... now that was a terrifying concept. The responsibility of raising up proper dwarves from bright little dwarrows, and not ruin them with stupid mistakes, turned Kili's blood to ice in her veins.

“And,” Kili continued, clearing the gruffness from her throat that woolgathering had put there. She _would_ see her mother again. “I've never had any yearning to try for a dwarrow or two, if you follow me. Dwarf men are all well and good, for other dams.”

Immediately, Kili could hardly believe the words that had come spilling from her mouth, sitting in an elven cell, with her fingers curled loosely around the wrist of such a comely elven lass. _Dwarf men are for other dams_. Oh, Mahal have mercy, she wanted the stone itself to swallow her whole.

That was of course the moment when some great crashing noise echoed from farther up amongst the pillars, followed by raucous laughter and shouts, and Tauriel let out a long sigh.

“I must go,” she said, and Kili felt the loss of such fine company already, keen as a spear between her ribs. “Before too much wine and the joy of starlight leads some of my kin to... fall to indecorous pursuits.”

She paused then, and favoured Kili with a long look cut sideways. Her eyes glittered beneath the lush sweep of her lashes, like chips of green jasper, before shifting her arm just enough to take Kili's hand fully in the clasp of her own.

Elven skin was cool to the touch, making Kili feel all the more enflamed for the contrast. Tauriel's fingers were elegant and long, but held a warrior's strength, clear as day.

“Thank you,” Tauriel said, followed by something elvish. “For trusting me with such secrets, Kili. I'll keep your confidence, until the end of all days.”

There were many good reasons why Dis, daughter of Thrain, called her own daughter _reckless._ That was certainly apparent when Kili gave her gaoler's beautiful hand a sharp tug, only to press a kiss against pale, fine-boned knuckles through the very bars of her cage.

“I believe you,” Kili said, smiling soft, and risked another brief peck of a kiss when Tauriel didn't immediately snatch her hand away. “Thank you, for that and for the conversation, my lady.”

Kili would forever carry a memory of the endearingly surprised smile that flickered over Tauriel's face, before the elf extracted herself and trotted away without another word.


	4. Fili/Ori/Kili - Shovel Talk with the Brothers Ri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili/Ori/Kili, the princes have a chat with the older brothers Ri. Requested by k9dixie548.

Rivendell had been unnervingly quiet and still in the bright light of day, with elves gliding around with only slightly more liveliness than the stone figures in their swooping carven pillars. But now that evening had set in, the place had truly gone eerily silent outside the wee campsite their company had thrown together. The Elf-lord had given them leave to take rooms, but splitting up with doors and locks between them in unknown, untrusted territory felt unwise.

It was Fili who found the note— a folded scrap of paper, peeking out of a wrinkle in his still-wrapped bedroll— after their bellies were full of a proper meal, and their impromptu campfire was crackling merrily with the remains of another spindly elven chair. Glancing at his brother first, only to find Kili picking distractedly at his teeth, then darting a quick look around the rest of their gathered companions, Fili plucked the paper from its hiding spot. He turned slightly, hiding it from easy view of any but himself, and unfolded it to read.

 _Down the easternmost hallway_ , it said in familiar, neat runes, done in very promising blood red ink. Ori only used his red ink in special circumstances. _Fourth door to your right._

Very promising, indeed.

Whistling softly, like the trill of a sparrow, Fili caught his brother's attention and sent him a quick grin, glinting in the warm flicker of firelight.

“Come on,” he mouthed soundlessly, hauling himself to his feet. None of the others lounging around the fire gave the pair of them more than a passing flicker of notice; it was expected that they would be keen and curious, given their youth, and that had afforded a certain freedom to wander during the course of their journey so far, within reason of course.

The number of times their _keen and curious wanderings_ had led to some very keen and imaginative dallying with a certain sweet little scholar was a fact that all parties involved were eager to keep private, at least for now. Until such a time as neither Fili or Kili would be put at imminent risk of taking one of Nori's knives to the ribs, or being mashed into thick red jam by a terrifyingly strong Dori.

Ori claimed he was going to ease his brothers into the concept. Thus far, any and all such _easing_ had been subtle, and as slow as the shifting of the mountains themselves. Safer that way, he'd explained, then thoroughly kissed the dubious frowns from both princes' mouths.

And what fine arts of distraction Ori could wield these days, after gentle overtures had bloomed into ardent affection, and the freedoms of their shared pleasures had made him bold.

At that moment, it was fond memories of that boldness that put a spring in Fili's step; the hovering spectre of murderous older brothers and ignoble, bloody ends were the furthest thing from his mind. Dori was already curled up in his bedroll, and Nori was leaning over the balcony edge, with his back to the lot of them and faint wisps of bluish smoke curling from his pipe.

Slipping away was a simple matter, especially with his blood already thrumming with anticipation. Red ink, a bit of privacy, and clean elven sheets to sully before morning... clean sheets on a proper mattress, soft and roomy enough for leggy tree-shaggers to lie upon.

Fili could think of a great many things the three of them might get up to, with a bed that big.

“What, Fee,” Kili murmured, close on his heels, and Fili simply passed the note back without turning, intent on their path. He could hear the crumple of paper, and it was clear as crystal the moment his brother read it— Kili's breathing hitched, and his pace sped up, just enough to put him a step ahead rather than behind.

“Fourth door,” Kili said, all but bouncing in his boots, and began quietly counting off doors as they came across them. This eastern corridor was long and winding, with a number of branching hallways and vaulting archways, but not too many doors.

“Four,” Fili announced, pointing, as they rounded the last gentle curve.

“Four,” Kili agreed, sounding breathy already, and then they were dashing like excited dwarrows, tripping over their own boots in their haste and muffling their laughter as best they could in the queer stillness.

The door wasn't locked, and the latch opened smooth, without the barest hint of a click. It was enough to offer the element of surprise— Ori was sitting on the edge of the bed (the gorgeously expansive bed, just as Fili had hoped), with his back to the door and his hood pulled up. The room was awash in shadow, lit only by moonlight streaming silver in through the hight windows, and Ori didn't twitch even a hairsbreadth as the door swung silently open.

Placing a restraining arm against Kili's chest, Fili used his other hand to sign his intent: _a kiss is a pleasant surprise_.

 _A pair of them even better_ , Kili signed in return, smiling toothily.

The door closed behind them as whisper-soft as it had opened, and the princes kept their steps light, creeping nearer and trying very hard not to give in to giggles and give the game away.

Sometimes plans came together as simply as a look shared between them; Kili was going to leap onto the bed, while Fili darted around the front, sandwiching a startled Ori between them for a well-deserved shower of kisses and worshipping hands stripping him free of all those knitted layers. Such a fine idea as this deserved ample reward, after all.

That was the _plan_ , but the sudden punishing grip that took hold of their shoulders was certainly successful in scattering any and all pleasurable designs to the four winds.

Kili squawked, arms flailing as he tried to turn around or shake off the painful hold, while Fili tensed under the clutch of their unknown assailant, immediately going for one of his blades.

“I wouldn't, princeling,” a rough voice said, before Fili's fingers could more than graze single knife handle. A rough, familiar voice, but entirely unexpected coming from the cloaked form they'd assumed had been Ori.

Nori turned from his seat on the bed, flipping his hood down to reveal hair let out loose from its usual points, and a dangerous glint in his eyes. A quick craning glance backward showed it was indeed Dori who had their shoulders, and judging by the silver-headed dwarf's thunderous scowl, he wasn't planning to let them loose any time soon.

How had they even gotten to the room so damned _fast_?

“Now then,” Nori continued, rising to his feet in one smooth, sinuous sort of movement. He seemed to slither through the dappled moonlight, like a fish in deep water, as he closed in to stand and stare them down from less than an arm's length away.

Dori's grip was nearly as cruel as the jaws of a warg, biting mercilessly into muscle and sinew. Kili imagined he could hear his own bones grinding together, while Fili was already losing the feeling in his fingers, the numbness and tingling creeping through his arm like a chill.

Nori smiled, knife-sharp. Dori definitely did not.

“Let's have a chat, lads.”

 

* * *

 

The elven valley was lost behind them, hidden away amongst the cliffs while their Company trekked towards taller peaks, when Ori found himself hemmed in on either side by young princes, falling back to keep pace beside him. This wasn't done, it wasn't smart _at all_ — not with Dori glancing back at him every few moments, and Nori somewhere behind.

He could feel the tips of his ears burning, and a similar heat creeping up the back of his neck, and it only grew worse when a pair of arms— one belonging to each prince— curled around his back.

“What are you doing?” he whispered through gritted teeth, glancing between his sweet, _stupid_ lovers with a rising sense of dread. “They'll see—”

“Good,” Fili said.

“Let them,” Kili added, and when Ori turned to scold him, Kili had the audacity to butt their brows together, right out for all and sundry to see.

“We're doing this a bit backward,” Fili continued, while Ori tried his best not to sputter. He could already feel his face flaming; drawing more attention to this revealing scene would simply make things worse, if that were possible.

Kili was still leaning too close, and for one terrified instant, Ori was sure he was going to try for a kiss. At the last moment, however, he simply held up his hand, with a gleaming little silver hair bead pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“We've not had a chance to carve any stones for wooing, or the like.” The bead caught the sunlight prettily as Kili waggled it around, highlighting the intricate designs worked across the barrel shape of it.

“Though we're a bit far past overtures,” Fili said, mostly under his breath. There was a harsh, growling sort of cough from nearby, and both arms around Ori's back tightened, drawing their triad of a hug even closer together.

“Not that we would't— or won't— not that any of that, of whatever, makes any difference,” Fili amended quickly, stammering over his words like Ori had never heard him do before. “We'll do stones, the moment we have a chance.”

“The loveliest stones,” Kili said, nodding. “Quartz, clear as glass. Or amethyst— yeah, aye, you like purple, don't you Ori?”

“Aye, whatever you like, Ori.” Fili was nodding as well, and the sight of the pair of them bobbing away was making Ori dizzy.

“What I'd like,” he said, keeping his voice quiet and even despite being caught in the middle of whatever maelstrom the princes were getting up to. “Is to know what's going on.”

“Beads,” Kili said, making absolutely nothing clearer at all.

“Of intention,” Fili added, holding up a bead of his own now, polished to a sheen. “Of promise. If you'll have us.”

“If I'll _have_ you?” Ori definitely felt dizzy now, and for the first time since this tomfoolery had begun, he was entirely glad for the supportive grip his lovers' had wrapped 'round his back. “Beads? _Promise_?”

“Not a proposal,” Kili said, words tumbling hastily from his lips. “I mean, we'll do that properly, of course—”

“With the families consulted and negotiating,” Fili cut in.

“—when the time is right. Eventually. Preferably after we've got the mountain back.” Kili's grin was luminous, crinkling his eyes and making them sparkle prettier than any bead or stone, and Ori found his breath catching at the sight of it. Fili was even worse, with his own expression gone soft and deeply fond as it only did very rarely, making Ori's stomach tie up in knots.

“Proposal,” Ori repeated, because apparently all of his own words had deserted him.

“For now, a promise,” Kili said, and this time he did lean in close enough to steal a kiss, brief but sweet as honey.

“Because you deserve a promise, dear as you are,” Fili said, his hand coming 'round to turn Ori's chin into another kiss, longer and more whiskery than the first.

And even though his skull felt as though it was packed with milling butterflies rather than any sensible thoughts, when a pair of beads were pressed into his palms by callused hands, Ori still clutched them firm.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I left out the actual shovel talk. Let's say it was too terrifying to see in print, and let your imaginations do the rest <3
> 
> Also, there seems to be a courting theme developing with many of these. Not intentionally, but I'm not complaining either.


	5. 63!Thorin/Bilbo - Discussing Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bagginshield, 63!Thorin, Bilbo and Thorin having a discussion about children.
> 
> Requested by yarsian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your consideration: contains some talk about fertility and infertility, injury, and vague allusions to termination (no actual termination in the story).
> 
> Also, set in a post-canon AU, so **spoilers for the entire story of The Hobbit.**

It was late summer, with its long, lazy afternoons and sticky-warm evenings— this particular summer's day was easing comfortably from the former to the latter, and Bilbo was sitting peacefully in the back garden, wreathed in cool bluish smoke. There was earth under his nails, gritty and drying, and staining the knees of the old trousers he'd changed into before coming out for a spot of relaxation.

The Gamgees were faultless gardeners, never failing to coax his little plots to produce ample bundles of sweet carrots and smooth-skinned potatoes bigger than his fist. Bilbo was deeply appreciative of their hard work and the fruits of their labours, but there were times when a hobbit needed to dig his hands into the good earth, rooting his soul in the rich, dark loam.

Today had been such a day, and Bilbo felt better for it, even if the heavy afternoon sun had beaded sweat thickly upon his brow and down his spine, plastering his shirt against his skin. There were a few fresh rows of spinach and green onions, which would hopefully pop up before the autumn crept too far, with any luck at all.

The sun was hanging low now, like a great red lantern strung from a sagging cord, and the heat of it was more comforting than punishing with a bench under his bottom, and a pipe between his teeth. Bilbo closed his eyes against the glare of it, arms spread across the back of his bench, and listened to the crickets and the birds beginning to rouse for their evening chorus.

It was only a few golden moments, however, before a shadow fell across him, blocking the light.

Bilbo blinked, lifting his head from its comfortable loll. Squinting up at Thorin's stark silhouette, ringed with burnished gold and orange from the slowly dipping sun, he found himself struck by the fierce beauty before him, breathtaking even now, after all that had transpired.

Her hair was tied back, braided away from her angular face and the swathe of beard she had begun allowing to grow longer. She wore a pair of beads in it now, dangling from her chin, fashioned from some banded green stone bought from a dwarven trader. Carving, mostly wood but also a few colourful stones, had helped keep Thorin from completely destroying the smial during her recuperation.

“Hello, love,” Bilbo said, plucking the pipe from his mouth. “I thought you'd be reading until supper.”

 _Reading_ was euphemism for napping, and they both knew it, but the unwelcome and unexplained return of Thorin's lethargy this past month had been an especially sore issue.

A summer cold, perhaps, but also an unpleasant reminder of troubles past.

Those long, worrisome weeks after the battle at the gates of Erebor, when Thorin had been bone-pale beneath the dark lengths of her hair, with plum bruises under her hazy, pain-blurred eyes, had been a horror. It had only been the looming spectre of that cursed mountain, and the threat of terrible sickness that still lingered in Thorin's heart, that had put them on the road so quickly. It had been a treacherous, nerve-wracking journey westward, with Thorin laid out in the back of a wagon, looking barely removed from a corpse. This time, however, Gandalf did not leave their sides for more than a few hours at a time, and a small contingent from the forces of Dain Ironfoot kept them from meeting too much trouble on the road.

Thorin had been so easily tired, at first, but months of idyllic Hobbiton springtime had been kind to her, knitting wounds both visible and not. Eventually, Thorin was much more herself again, or perhaps even more herself now than Bilbo had ever expected to see. He certainly had no memory of her smiles coming so easily during their journey, or the hard lines smoothing from her posture. At least, not until they had both spent long nights sitting together in a quiet parlour, sharing hearty meals and the softness of his down mattress, and slipping into the easy comforts of a Shire life.

Truly, he had not expected Thorin Oakenshield to take to such a life without more complaining, if the stubborn dwarrowdam ever took to it at all. But then he would catch a glimpse of profound relief flickering deep in her eyes, only for a moment or two— when she lay beside him under soft sheets, with her hair spilling like ink over the pillows, or he noticed her watching him as they ambled home from the Green Dragon, with his hand resting lightly on the small of her back— and Bilbo would understand, at least a little.

If this was a second chance, a blessing from some kindly Vala or spirit beyond reckoning, he had no urge to question it either.

There was none of that relief in her face at the moment, however, only stony displeasure turning down the corners of her lips. And then, oddly, there was a pile of linen being dropped into his lap, and Bilbo scrambled to catch the tumbling cloths.

“ _What_ ,” he said, nearly upending the coals of his pipe onto his own thigh, then said it again once he'd managed to gather the linen in his arms. “What? Thorin?”

“My rags.” Thorin's voice a deep rumble, like the grinding of a particularly grumpy millstone, but Bilbo had _no idea_ why she would be—

Rags.

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo glanced down for a closer look at the linen in question, and noticed faint brownish stains marring the tight weave, here and there. Clean, but mottled from past soiling.

Oh goodness.

“I've been past due to use them for more than a month,” Thorin said, and Bilbo swallowed again. His tongue felt like sandpaper against his palate. “And my breasts are aching. Shove over, hobbit.”

Bilbo did as he was bid, making space enough for Thorin on the bench; he was still hugging the linen rags like a child might cling to a doll, feeling altogether discombobulated.

Like a  _child_.

“Oh.” It was more breath than word, escaping Bilbo's parched throat in a gust. Settling heavily beside him, Thorin leaned back until his shoulder was pressed against her arm, and stared out at the garden.

“Indeed,” she said, brushing her hands over the dark brown wool of her trousers. Short trousers, in Hobbitish fashion (though not the fashion of hobbit ladies, it must be said), and bare, nearly hairless feet. The sight of Thorin's toes curling into the lush green grass never failed to make Bilbo's heart judder; it hadn't been long since she'd begun regularly foregoing boots, and Bilbo had since taken great pleasure in washing the dust from her still-soft soles each time she reclined in the bath.

“Do you have any idea,” Thorin said eventually, breaking the lengthy, heady silence that had fallen between them. She was still looking out to the small garden, and beyond, out over the sloping, verdant hills. “How remote the chances were of such a thing? How little chance that I... that I am even _able_ , after everything...”

When one of Thorin's hands strayed up, hovering over (but not touching) the flat line of her stomach under the buttons of her shirt, Bilbo finally got his legs under him again, tossing the rags aside to drape heedlessly over the greenery wherever they fell, and setting his gutted pipe aside as well. Turning in his seat, he reached out, daring to stroke the back of Thorin's warm, scarred hand. There were other scars, some truly gruesome, marking a map of past pains across the landscape of her body; Bilbo had learned them all, by sight and touch and taste.

“You hobbits.” Thorin took a deep breath, inhaling through the long line of her nose, only to release it in a shuddering, broken groan. “You dratted hobbits. No wonder your little burrows are overrun with babes, if you are so very fertile as to take root in such broken, desecrated body as mine.”

Bilbo felt as though his heart were cracking, splitting wide behind his ribs; he scooted closer to her side, curling his fingers around her hand, and craned up to press a kiss against the hinge of her jaw. It was tense under his lips; her teeth were gritted hard.

“Not broken,” he murmured, kissing her again but higher, where beard gave way to the curve of cheekbone. “Mended, and stronger for it. And certainly not desecrated by any measure; you are a wonder, and the most stalwart soul I've ever known. My love, my dear love.”

“You are a fool,” Thorin snarled, but her hand finally uncurled from it's half-fist and closed the gap, resting with such gentleness against her stomach. Bilbo's hand went with it, holding tight. She tossed her head, and if her hair hand't been tied, it would have flared out like the mane of a furious pony.

“This is _foolishness_ ,” she said, while her eyes glittered dark and wet in the setting sun, finally cutting over to meet Bilbo's gaze. “A fool's hope, and a fool's chance, and _you_ , of course you would cause such a thing, Bilbo Baggins. Impossible, infuriating fool of a hobbit.”

“It wasn't entirely my doing, to be fair.” It wasn't too challenging to find his smile, crooked and tinged with apology and careful wit in equal measure. “You were present as well, if you'll recall.”

“This isn't a matter for joking.” Thorin's tone was whip-sharp, though Bilbo did not miss her mouth twitching in the faintest ghost of humour.

“No, it isn't,” Bilbo agreed, sobering as he glanced down towards their hands, joined over her belly, then back up to look in her eyes. “What would you like to do?”

There were options, of course— Bilbo had some vague notions of the details, and enough knowledge of the outcomes to converse relatively intelligently about it, but he had little doubt that Thorin would know much more. It was her body, after all.

“I would know your mind on the matter,” Thorin said, and now her thumb was moving, rubbing slowly over the soft blue linen of her shirt. “We haven't— we never discussed the possibility of... _children_.”

The last word was hardly louder than the gentle breeze rustling bushes around them, and Bilbo took a moment to let it sink into his mind. He thought of Bag End, sprawling under the hill, and the calm of its quiet hallways. He had never considered children, not seriously. Nor had he ever considered spending his days with another body in his space, in his bed, in his heart, until he'd met a certain gruff, fiercely proud dwarrowdam, a dwarven _king_ of all things, and followed her across half of Eriador and the breadth of the Wilderland on some half-cocked quest to fetch a gem.

He was not the same Baggins who'd run out his front door more than a year past, his pulse hammering with a bolt of fresh Tookish courage.

He had stared down a dragon for her, and faced the terror that dragon's sickness had lit in her own eyes.

He had no idea how to be a father, but for Thorin, if she asked it of him, he would try.

“I would be proud,” Bilbo said, each word ringing perfectly true in the depths of his soul. “To raise a child with you, if that is what you want. Proud and bursting with joy, and also completely _terrified_ , but that goes without saying, I should hope.”

“Of course,” Thorin said, and she was truly laughing now, even if she sounded surprised about it. It was quiet, and still shaky 'round the edges, but it was real laughter. “There isn't bravery without fear, and the magnitude of your courage ceased to surprise me months ago, my dear burglar.”

The weight of that compliment, falling so easily from those regal lips, settled over Bilbo like a cloak, warming him down to his very bones. “Then trust I'll do my best to keep my courage, Thorin, whatever you choose.”

Thorin leaned in, catching Bilbo in a firm, almost desperate sort of kiss— not the sort for sharing in gardens, where any neighbour might wander past, but Bilbo, surprisingly enough, couldn't bring himself to fret about it. Instead he tightened his grip on Thorin's hand, and with his other arm, reached up to cup her jaw, holding them both steady.

“I haven't the faintest notion how to be a mother,” Thorin muttered against his mouth, letting breath mingle wetly between them, then tilted in to claim another, softer brush of lips. When they parted again, she butted their brows together, seemingly content to stay so very close as she spoke. “I've only ever been an aunt, and a damned poor and distant one by times. I nearly killed my nephews, Bilbo, through my own stubbornness and weakness. And they are dwarves grown, not some helpless babe.”

“Your nephews love you.” Thorin's beard was lush and soft when Bilbo carded his fingers through it, careful not to pull her braided chin. “They nearly died to save you, because they love you. Because they admire you, their extraordinary aunt, with strength and determination enough to win back a mountain.” Bilbo paused, considering his words with great care. “And with wisdom enough to leave it behind, a glittering home for your people, when fate demanded you go.”

“When a hobbit demanded,” Thorin corrected, looping her other arm loosely around Bilbo's waist as they sat together, her head still bent to his. “Then dragged me all the way back to his burrow, while I was too weak to argue.”

“It's a smial, for goodness sake.” The tension, thick as it was, had begun to bleed away, leaving them both breathless. “Just as cosy, and _underground_ I might add, as any dwarven halls.”

“Just as cosy,” Thorin said, pecking Bilbo on the cheek before leaning back, resuming their more proper postures next to one another on the bench. Her arm stayed around his waist, keeping him close to her side. “Or cosier, even. There is much to be said for the company, here in your burrow... our burrow.”

Bilbo didn't bother arguing further, except to huff a playfully exasperated breath, resting his head against the slope of her shoulder.

“Bilbo,” she said after a moment or two, questioningly, and Bilbo hummed a wordless prompt for her to continue. She shifted their joined hands, until their fingers tangled, palm to palm, still resting against her stomach. “If... if Mahal allows it, because Maker knows this will not be a simple road to tread, but if He lets me keep this child, I would be glad to raise it with you. Here, in this place. Our home.”

Heat welled in his eyes, and Bilbo turned enough to find Thorin watching him, looking somber but hopeful, and almost more beautiful than he could bear.

“Our burrow,” he said hoarsely, and let Thorin kiss him again in the middle of their garden, deep, tremulous, and bright with laughter.


End file.
